Violet english version
by Padmini
Summary: Sherlock is tormented by a strange recurring nightmare. Little does he know that that dream will soon have an important part in his life and help him to understand many things about himself. What painful memories are embedded in his soul?
1. Chapter 1

Hello everyone. This is a fanfic I wrote in Italian. I have little time to translate it so I'm forced to use the google translator, so forgive any mistakes. I hope you like it. A kiss, Tinkerbell

I wake up.  
The sound of rain on the window I was miraculously brought back to reality.  
I cannot believe it. It happened again.  
I fell asleep last night during one of those movies that are so well loved John. He woke me up and helped me to reach the bed, where I again plunged into the arms of Morpheus. God damn sleep! Why do not you find another hobby? What do I know? Cards? Chess? Backgammon? Everything would be fine. Enough that I'd stop pestering me. I do not need to sleep. Do not want to sleep.  
Why? Sleep for the first thing is a waste of time. Some may say it takes the body to recharge. This will allow for normal people! Someone must have reversed some wires when I created it for me just the opposite happens.  
While others are recharged by eating, resting or even (horrors!) sleeping, I drain. Really! There is nothing more damaging for me idleness. My brain, the most important part of me, the only one I can rely on, needs work. Jobs. Jobs. For months we have not got a decent job in his hands.  
Kids run away from home, betrayed wives from husbands who have discovered too late to love their best friend, insurance fraud. Banal, boring.  
There is nothing out there that can distract me from my nightmares. No, I stand corrected. In my nightmare. Just one. It is sufficient to destabilize me.  
I do not remember from when I do. Maybe forever. Cycle is back to torment me. So, periodically, I relapsed into my old habit. It was not always so. I remember when I was a child my mother was. She came into my room and consoled me.  
Then, when I grew up, I was not able to appeal to her to calm my nights. I had to make do, and she came. My damnation.  
Cocaine.  
I went down hard immediately. As soon as the nightmare returned to be alive, I went to my old acquaintance that he owed me a favor and more than I supply drug. No one could suspect anything at home.  
Then Mycroft noticed it. I watched. My dear brother! Always so worried about me! I kept an eye! I had brought to the clinic for help in quitting. For a time he had worked. Then we had done it again.  
Finally, after my second visit to that damned psychologist, I found something better than cocaine: the murders.  
Do not misunderstand. I am not distracted by killing people, mind you! Discover the killers of the drug was better than pure. Reasoning, finding clues, pigeonhole people by just looking. That's what made me feel good. I need to keep the brain engaged in something other than that damn dream. I pursued. That ... and more.  
I just want to forget. There are many things you do not want in my mind, now. Because if I did it with the solar system cannot succeed with this? I mean, is information. Trivial memories in the brain. I cannot just wipe them out?  
Instead here he is! The enemy of my time! That bloody nightmare does not want to learn to leave me alone! And with that nightmare, memories resurface I thought I had been buried. Painful memories.

I find myself in the dream baby. I'm sleeping in a crib. The soft walls, stuffed with cotton, surrounding me. To cover up, a delicate cotton fitted sheet and a blanket made by her grandmother. Above me a carousel spins with birds and a classical piano. I laugh, I like that music. Soon the music is going to make me fall asleep, when suddenly I hear the screams.  
There are screams of a man and a woman. The man was furious, swearing, rants, accusations. She cries and asks forgiveness. They feel the blows and the woman cries louder. Then a door slams. There, I wake up covered in sweat.  
I do not know why but this dream makes me terrible anxiety. I do not know where it came from. I do not know if it's my memory or whether it has a symbolic value. I tried to talk with a psychologist, but has not been a great help.  
'You have to deal with it' I said, 'Try to handle it. Try to get up from the cradle to go and see who is quarreling. It's your dream, you can do. It's easy! '  
Easy foot! Perhaps it could be easy for her! For me, the only desire was not out of the cradle but that dream! I tried to get rid of it anyway. I've succeeded. How wrong I was!

Is returned. Now have three nights that I wake up like that. John seems to have noticed something. He, too, as I observed Mycroft. Instead of nagging my brother, however, knows her place. Do not torment me. Who wait. He knows that, if I want, tell her my feeling.  
Meanwhile, however, a true ingrate, I'm treating her like a rag feet. Why I do this? He bears, but I think it will last long. Two nights ago he went to sleep with Sarah. Again. Now spends more time at home with that woman in Baker Street. I understand it, basically. I'd run in his place.  
I have become unbearable. My mood swings are becoming more evident. It is the effect of cocaine. My face like a beaten dog, the next morning, he must have softened because he suggested to look a movie together. I accepted. I did not want contrariarlo again. I did not want him to go away, leaving me alone with my monsters. And yet ... even with his presence here showed up. Perhaps because of this. With John at my side I felt safer, more relaxed ... and damn those memories have the opportunity to strike more violently than usual.

I get up, take a shower. Maybe flowing water can carry away the shadows of the night, like a river that you clean the dead leaves. Useless.  
Itches shoulder. Support a hand to the skin to take away the itch and feel. A small imperfection. I look and see. A scar. Since I have it? I do not remember. It will be wise to seek their origin in my memory? Too late. Before she can finish this thought to make the memory makes its way powerfully into my mind.  
Resent that pain again. The pain of ceramic that breaks against my skin. But the greater the pain of my heart. That heart I thought I had forever sealed in an airtight chamber. Slide the bottom of the shower while the water keeps dropping on him.  
What's happening to me? What is so terrible that these emotions are slowly taking possession of my being? I do not want! I do not want! I do not want but I cannot drive them away. The more I try most of these returned to me, wounding me. As the blades sharp. Follow me in every hiding place, my hound.

"Sherlock?"  
I hear John's voice from the kitchen. He calls me. He's leaving to go to work.  
"I'm leaving. On the way home I stop at the supermarket. Do you need anything? "  
I do not answer. He resigned, leaving the room slamming a little 'door. He is angry again. Tonight I will sleep again from Sarah, I feel. I'll try to forgive me, perhaps. Maybe I could remove those toes rotting in the fridge. They should be ready for the tests that I plan and if in a couple of hours I can take them out John will end up with something foul in less than between milk and jam.  
I leave the shower. I dry and dress. I buttoned my shirt and I put my beautiful blue robe. How convenient! Finally, a bit 'of peace. I go into the living room and I enjoy the silence. No. Too much silence. My mind test, bastard, brought me back to those memories.  
I take my violin and try to chase them away. Sound of lively music. I do not feel depressed. I move around the room, dancing. Every time I open my eyes to avoid tripping over something and that's where I realize that my phone is ringing.  
Still holding the violin in his hand, resting on the bow seat and grabbed the phone. It is Lestrade.  
"Sherlock Hello" I said "Am I disturbing you?"  
"No, I figured," I say in response. Another case! Please! A murder case maybe! Please! Something worthy of my attention!  
"There was a nasty murder tonight. A man was found stabbed in an old abandoned factory. Can I send a car to get you? "  
"Sure, sure," I reply, trying to repress happiness.  
A murder! Well! A little 'food for my mind! I unravel with a single gesture on his robe and in a few minutes I'm ready to get on the machine that will take me to the scene of the crime. I'm sorry that there is John with me, though. Patience. The facts tell tonight.


	2. Chapter 2

The machine discharge by the inspector Lestrade has arrived quickly. Too much for my taste. The old 'Greg' knew that I would accept. I run down the stairs, excited. Do not wait to examine the crime scene and, more interestingly, the body.  
I will have at least five minutes all to myself for being able to move freely and then rattling off indefinitely for the conclusions. It all depends on what you find.  
It seems to me that this driver is a bit 'too slow. I do not even trouble to tell him to speed. I would ignore. In the meantime I look out my window and I laugh. Occasionally Lestrade tells me to be too cold, too indifferent to the suffering humanity. What does he know me? He knows something of the suffering I have endured? I do not know anything. And never will know. Period.  
Trying to ignore my pain led me inevitably to ignore as well as others. Or have I begun to give a damn about people's feelings in order to forget my own? Probably. I locked my emotions solitary confinement double-locked with a few hundred locks. Can not open it.  
For some time now, however, seems to me that someone or something, try to force it. I paid too much attention to the lock. Somewhere there must be a flaw. A tiny crack if stressed out with the right force, could bring down all my defenses. And at that point? What could I do?  
Could I handle that wave that inevitably would affect me?

Arrival at the crime scene. Still do not know what to expect. This is what I like. The wait. The longer the wait the more I enjoy the prize. I get off the car with caution and elegance. My every movement must be precise and smooth. I put myself in a position of superiority just walking. I mean, those who walk like me? I am a handsome man, I know. More than one of my clients, telling me, could not help but notice it. John is right to say that I strut a bit '. What's wrong with that? It is the only satisfaction I have left.

"Finally," I said Lestrade approaching "You really took your time!"  
"Next time send me a driver that does not have a driver's license found in the potato" I say without even apologizing. Why would I do then? It is he who should thank me for my presence.  
I approach the corpse. He's lying on his stomach. I seem to recognize that coat. I've seen.  
I observe first the ground. There was a very bloody fight, judging by the footprints I see. Two men. One of them arrived first and waited for the other to join him. Then the two began to talk excitedly and came to blows. We can not yet speak of murder, in fact. It could be a legitimate defense. We must find the other man to understand it.  
As I have already named all the necessary measurements so without asking anything I put on my gloves and around the body to verify its identity.

I've never been emotional with corpses. I mean! I see a lot with my profession. My house, much to the chagrin of John, is always full of heads, fingers, arms, hands, various organs.  
So why when I see the man's face is I just want to vomit? Why do I feel itching eyes? I look at the sky, hoping the tears would not want to leave.  
"So?" Lestrade asks me worried, "My god, Sherlock, something is wrong?"  
If it is noticed. He sensed my discomfort. I do not react well when I'm ever to examine the body. Usually all my attention goes to him. On the details of dress, skin, shoes. Anything that can help me identify and incasellarlo. Not now. I looked away and breathing with difficulty, trying to fight back tears too strong to be stopped.  
When I turn toward him with fear. Even Donovan, recently arrived, looking at me bewildered. I have never seen me cry. I'm crying now. Silently, but I'm crying.  
Never, I never expected to find him right here. I loved, I hated him. I do not know how I feel about him now. Pity. Maybe. Regret. Too. Pain. Yes, especially pain. Pain for not being able to prove my love. To not be able to get it from him.  
"What is Sherlock?" Sally asks me worried. I must be just as scary as if even she has waived the classic nickname that I usually buckles.  
I open my mouth to speak but no words come out. I try to reorder them.  
"What can you say about the corpse?"  
"There was a fight," I say without question "Apparently he and another man were fighting ... and this is the consequence. It could be a legitimate defense. In fact, I'm sure "  
"How can you say such a thing?"  
"The dagger" I say. I realized too late the dagger and only now I realize, stuck between the ribs of man "belongs to the victim"  
"How do you say?" He asks Lestrade  
"If the knife belongs to the victim who killed him probably just wanted to defend himself. He "I say pointing to the man on the ground" has called him here, probably with an excuse, and tried to kill him but the other was faster and stabbed him with his own weapon "  
"Sherlock" the inspector said to me, holding his face "This is all very interesting but cannot prove it. You're right to say that if the knife belonged to the victim is self-defense, but cannot prove it. We should first examine the fingerprints and, more importantly, identify the dead! "  
All right. Perfect. How do I tell? I already know who he is. I am looking for words that are so hard to get. I see the pity in their eyes. Seem softened by my weakness. I usually have them drowned. They are cold, calculating, cynical. Excites them to see me so weak?

I do not have time to search for answers in their faces because I am overwhelmed.  
The same knife that has pierced the side of man has penetrated into the slot of my room and the security has uncovered shamelessly while ignoring the many padlocks to which I had provided.  
All that was enclosed in there I invest with excessive violence. Too many memories that I wanted to bury. The awareness of all those episodes as a bomb explodes inside me.  
I have not eaten anything this morning, but I must get away as not to contaminate the crime scene. I run outside, under the gaze full of pity for Donovan, Lestrade and Anderson, who has just been added. Imagine if that little shit wants to miss the show!  
Reach me while I have already placed their hands on the wall in front of the factory and throw out the little dinner that John forced me to eat last night.  
I feel bad in every part of the body, as if memories had taken shape. Each blow. Every insult. Any mistreatment. Resurface to my mind and my body as if he were living now. I think back to that man who died in a brutal manner, in a place so bleak. Everything is so far from what it was.

I leave it up to fatigue. Stagger a bit 'and, finally, I can find some clarity. I feel the presence of the three behind me. They do not speak but stare at me earnestly. What do you expect from me? I despise? Finally also suffer from the cold Sherlock Holmes Faces Death? Who cares! I never cared about the judgment of others, let alone three of these idiots who are to watch my back, careful to catch even the slightest movement.  
I take the phone. I do everything calmly otherwise risk of falling again. Select the number of Mycroft. All right. My mental functions are still intact. I try to type an SMS. No. There is something wrong. The letters on the keys are mixed up, are blurred. What could hinder me?  
Tears? Are these tears?  
Okay. I give the message. The phone, because he hates the messages.  
"Mycroft?" I call him when, after a short wait, he says "Come here, now"  
"Where?" He asks me, of course, but I'm no longer connected with the outside world. I wander in a world of my own.  
"Come here" I say. Where should come, then? Come to me and help me to stem the suffering. Help me. You know, you know everything that room contained cursed. Can you help me get everything back in, brother?  
I must have repeated the same sentence, an indefinite number of times but I am not aware. Mycroft, on the other side of the telephone, is disoriented. Lestrade is to help me. I took the phone from my hand. Do not oppose resistance. Rest well, with the arm in the air and the open hand. The address and said terminating the call.  
"It will be here soon," he says, handing me the phone. I'm not around. I'm not moving. Down with the hand but did not mention wanting to take the phone that he hands me. Resigned, I puts it in his pocket.  
"Sherlock, explain to me what's happening?" I asked trying to hide his impatience.  
"I know who" I say finally. I have to do it. I can do. I want to do it.  
"Come on, then!" Anderson says with his usual attitude irritating "enlighten us!"  
I can notice some sarcasm in his voice. I have always despised, and has never hidden. Not that the feeling was not mutual, but now it hurts. How to make a knife in a wound.

"His name is Siger Holmes" I say, and hear them hold their breath "He was my father"


	3. Chapter 3

I do not remember much of what happened next. He was so confused ... Mycroft came and hugged me. He did not cry. It has never been weaker, him.  
I argued with her arms so strong. The arms that I would have liked too, so I could sustain alone. I took home. John was not there yet so he stayed with me until she returned home at least Mrs. Hudson.  
Although she remained close until John is back. He still knows nothing.  
Now it is here, in front of me. He looks at me. I fixated on him, but do not see it. No one has said anything. I'll have to do it. But I'm still in shock. I cannot make complete sentences. My thoughts go fast, as usual, but the body refuses to obey.  
I was in this state all day. Neither Mrs. Hudson Mycroft I managed to wake up.  
With an immense effort of will, come back to earth. It is one thing I want to do. I force myself to do it.  
"Sherlock" John whispers to me "What happened? Mrs. Hudson seemed so worried ... "  
I look at it and now I see. He too is worried about me. Dear John! I do get angry and yet is always there for me!  
"This morning" I begin to fatigue, "This morning I went to examine a corpse"  
"No wonder, then," he says, rising from his chair on which he sat to the kitchen. I hear him fumbling with the kettle to make tea.  
"He was my father" I say simply. How should I tell? There is no other way. I hear the sound of a cup that is broken. I look to the kitchen and I see John, stiffly, with his open hand. He turns toward me. He looks at me. I studied. Do not know what to say. I see the panic in his eyes.  
"Never mind" I say "You need not say anything"  
"They killed him?" He asks me, trying to get me the questions I would if it were a corpse anywhere. Unfortunately not.  
"From the clues that I could detect on the site must have been a fight," I say trying to sound professional "But I'm pretty sure my father wanted to kill those who killed him"  
"Why?" He asks. Yeah. Why? Who would want to kill my father? Who had it?  
"I do not know."

I try to get up. I cannot. I feel weak. Frustrated. Tired. I want to cry. I want to sleep. I want to be alone. I need the cocaine. I cannot inject now, here, in front of John. I despise. No, worse. Prevent me from doing so.  
I try to get up but my arms are refusing to support the weight of my body. Fall back sharply in the chair. John immediately come to my rescue. I expected it.  
"I'll help," she says, taking me by the armpits "You need to sleep" decides.  
Yes, so decides. When he uses that tone, there are no saints. I must sleep, or at least pretend. Leads me to bed. Normally I would be lying with open eyes, continuing to think. Not today. I have not the strength. I just want to sleep.  
Cocaine is still there, in my safe, outside of my reach. I wonder if I would be able to inject, in these conditions.  
Covers me and leaves the room, not before stopping for a couple of minutes to watch me. What do you feel towards me? Pity?

I close my eyes. I would not sleep but I need it. Yet I fear. Fear of reliving the nightmare.  
This time, however, try to follow the advice of the psychologist. Not that I trust her, though. It will be an experiment. I hope it arrives. I hope I sleep eight hours straight and wake up fresh tomorrow morning.  
Mycroft will be to take care of the funeral. I'll have to just ... I cannot think of anything. A gray cloud around me. I feel I'm about to faint. I feel clear. It is pure surrender to sleep. It is something worse. Quickly fall into oblivion.

I'm back in the cradle. The music, on top of me, still. The birds of plastic spin and I do enjoy. How cute! Maybe this time I can fall asleep to the sweet sound of this piano? I try. I close my eyes and I try. Useless.  
The cries of the two are soon felt.  
"How could you!" He shouts "Bitch!"  
"Please," she begs, "Please forgive me!"  
"It's too late!"  
"No, please, no! Think of your son! "  
"My son? How can you say such a thing? "  
"Please! Please! "  
So leave the barrel. I hear them. The woman cannot talk anymore. She cries, under those beatings.  
Then, with an effort of will, I get up. The cradle disappears.

I walk. I can walk. I am no longer a newborn. How many years I have? Six years judging by my height. Surplus for the door. I open it and are out in the corridor. I start running toward the screaming, but they suddenly stop. I stop in the middle of the room, bewildered.  
What happens? I try to go back, but a door opens in front of me. I had not noticed.  
The result is a man. I recognize him. I feel affection for him. I want to go hug him.  
"Dad!" Happy cry. I run the meeting with open arms. He even looks at me. I pass by without noticing my presence. I suffer for it.  
"Dad! Look at me! I'm here! Hug me! Pick me up! "  
He does not hear me. Why am I begging? I run after him but he goes too fast. I can not. I fall.  
I wake up.

I'm in bed. I hardly free of restless sleep in sheets that are wrapped around my body. I feel like a mummy.  
"John?" I call him. It will be at home? I beg you, John! Reply! "JOHN!"  
A beam of light enters my room. John opened the door and watches me.  
"All right, Sherlock?"  
That idiotic question! How can be fine! Do I have a scary face because he immediately came up to me and hugs me.  
"It's all right, Sherlock. I'm here. I am here "  
I feel it. It's here. Contact with his arms makes me feel better. I feel something wet running through my cheek. Just another tear. I'm sick. For years I did not cry and it seems that now all the tears that I repressed wish to take revenge on me.  
"Sherlock, please," he tells me. It does not add much. He just wants me to confide in him. I will not. He knows.  
For now I just want to sink my face on his chest trying to calm her sobs that shake my body. My soul.

It is morning. How did it happen? It was so dark before ... the last memory I have is my face pressed against John's sweater, wet with my tears. I get up. I'm already dressed because last night I did not own and change. I need a shower.  
I wash and put on clean clothes. I look in the mirror. I try to take the usual expression of indifference. I can do it. inside, in fact, are in pieces.  
I find John in the kitchen. Is eating breakfast.  
"How are you today?" Asks me thoughtful.  
"Better," I reply.  
Indeed it is true. It goes a bit 'better. The dream continued. I am proceeding along a path of burning coals. The murder of my father was the impetus that made me take the first step. Now I just have to continue. Ignoring the pain and continue. What will be, at the end of the path?

I see that my cup is already full of tea. That's what it takes me this morning. I was hungry. I sit down and start dunking some biscuits. I'm really enjoying the, this breakfast. John looks at me. He's worried about me, you see. I smile at him. I do not want to be blue.

I feel the phone vibrate across the desk. I get up the energy needed to go get him. Yes, I feel much better. It is Lestrade.  
"Sherlock, we identified the other man," she says breathlessly. He must have run a lot in these last hours. What he has done for me?  
"Who?" I ask my usual cold voice and professional.  
"His name is Stephen Brown. It is a divorce lawyer. In his diary we found a name that may interest you "  
"Tell me"  
"Violet Holmes"


End file.
